


Together, Alone

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Dream Sex, Dream blowjob, Emotional Infidelity, Filthy, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Season/Series 03, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wet Dream, lying to your wife, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, two men, two separate locations. Two different erotic dreams. The same aftereffect, two different places.</p><p>In other words, sad wanking and mutual pining. And John being a little bit of a dick to Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the suburbs

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to DulcimerGecko and MissDavis for betaing this fic. All kudos go to you both.
> 
> Many thanks to DulcimerGecko for the title.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the numbers, a love that I can't win  
But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end_

_Heartaches by the Number, written by Harlan Howard_

~*~

John woke with a start, sweating. He was dripping-in-his-pants hard, so close to orgasm that his bollocks were drawn up to the base of his cock. He glanced at Mary; she was deeply asleep, thankfully facing away from him. 

He’d been dreaming of Sherlock. Sherlock’s perfect pink lips around his cock, sucking him down, his ethereal eyes holding John’s gaze as he sucked and sucked and sucked. John reached for his erection - almost too painful to touch. He needed release, not furtive tugs and muffled breaths with his wife asleep beside him. And if Mary woke up? Could he play this off that was just about to reach for her? He was too close, he’d pop in a second. And Mary, who was used to John’s iron-clad self control, would know something was not right.

He slid out of bed, crouching barefoot on the floor and holding his breath for the space of several heartbeats. Mary slept on. His pants were pulled tight against his tender sac in this position - he needed to move, and fast. John tiptoed toward the door, still holding his breath. In the dark hallway he turned left toward the kitchen, dining room and living room. And the powder room beside the front door. The room the furthest away from the bedroom where Mary slept, blissfully unaware of his erotic obsession with his best friend.

John shut the door as quietly as possible. The lock clicked as he slid the bolt. He waited, not breathing, but no sound drifted down the hall. He opened the toilet lid and rucked up his t-shirt to his underarms. John’s nipples, exposed to the cool air of the loo, hardened quickly - nearly painfully. It only added to his arousal and he thumbed them in turn, pressing hard, relishing the tingle and pull.

Sure that he was safe from being discovered, John eased his blue plaid boxers down his hips and let them fall to the floor. He leaned forward over the toilet and braced his right hand against the wall, holding himself up stiff-armed. Eyes closed, he tried to recapture the dream: Sherlock, on his knees, naked, one hand slipped under John’s bum, squeezing his buttock, the other tugging John’s drawn-up scrotum slightly. Pink lips stretched tight around his girth, hot wet mouth sucking hard, sable curls falling into blue-green-gray eyes that peered adoringly up at John. John’s hand in those sable curls, pushing the hot mouth down, down, down, until Sherlock’s nose was buried in the golden brown curls at the base of John’s cock. 

John circled the base of his cock, pulling downwards, angling toward the toilet. He was sticky from nocturnal precome, and so hard it nearly hurt to stroke. He let out a nearly inaudible moan and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He stroked, pulling the foreskin back with each stroke down, drawing it over the glans with each upstroke. Faster, panting, leaning more weight on his right arm until the heels of his feet lifted off the floor. Body stiff, tilting over the toilet, mouth slack, lost in the imagined scene. 

John moaned again, louder this time. He wanted more than just a tug from his left hand. He wanted to rut, to thrust, to move and slide and feel another hard body beneath him, large strong hands on him. Panting, he spread his legs wider, knees slightly bent, he reached behind, stroking the cleft between his buttocks with his middle finger. His hips began to move jerkily, thrusting forward into the tight circle of his fist, then back into the pressure of his fingertip pressing his anus. Forward and back, breaths gusting noisily until he gasped and held his breath, stomach clenched tight, and experienced an orgasm that bordered on painful. He heard splashes in the toilet bowl, rhythmic wet bursts of sound in time with the throb of his cock. He bit his lip, eyes still tightly closed, and imagined coming in Sherlock’s mouth. Another splash, then another. Sensations went on and on, until he thought his lungs would burst with the need for air. Open mouthed, gulping air, hips still jerking, finger now knuckle deep in his body from behind, pulses around his finger. “Oh god,” John moaned and dropped to his knees, cock still twitching in his hand.

His chest heaved and still John didn’t move. He didn’t want to give up the dream, the imagined feeling of Sherlock around him, the fantasy that the finger in his arse was long and white, not short and tanned. Raw, his spent cock throbbed in his hand.

“John! Are you ok?” Mary’s voice, a few steps away from the door. John opened his eyes and looked around the dim powder room. He flushed the toilet and eased his shirt and boxers into place silently.

A firm knock. “John! Are you in there?” Mary sounded - what? concerned? no, annoyed. “John!”

He licked his lips. “I’m not feeling well. That fish I had for dinner didn’t settle well.” His voice sounded rough to his own years.

“John! Open the door!” Mary rattled the doorknob.

John rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to open the door to his wife. “Go back to bed, I came down here so I wouldn't wake you.” He shifted to sit with his back to the wall and flushed the toilet again, just to be sure. His left hand was growing tacky. 

“John! What …”

John cut her off, louder this time. “I’m sick, Mary. Go back to bed for god’s sake. I just want to be alone to be sick.” His annoyance rung clearly in the tone of his voice.

The doorknob rattled again. “Well, if that’s what you want …”

“Yes, that’s what I want. Go back to bed.” 

John heard footsteps receding down the hall. He hung his head, face hot, ashamed that he’d been so short with his wife. She’d been concerned, wanted assurance that he was all right. And he’d snapped at her, locked her out, and sent her packing. What was he becoming? Sneaking off to wank over his best friend in the middle of the night, disturbing his pregnant wife and then yelling at her.

Head lolling, John knew he wouldn’t sleep again that night. And neither would Mary, probably. He wished he could just slip out the front door to avoid having to face her, but that was impossible dressed only in pants and t-shirt. He rose to kneeling and turned on the cold tap and washed his hands quickly. He couldn’t reach the towel so he wiped them on his pants then curled on his side on the cold tile floor.

How would they come out of this without at least one person he loved being devastated?


	2. In the city

Sherlock drifted toward consciousness, feeling warm and sweaty from a dream of John kneeling him on the sofa, facing toward the back and pushing his shoulders down, spreading his buttocks and licking, sucking and lapping. He fully woke laying on his stomach with an erection pressed into the mattress. It was tempting to thread his hand under his belly and squeeze, rocking his hips to drive his cock into his fist. That was how he’d masturbated when he was 12, until his mother had suddenly taught him how to use the washing machine and abruptly given him responsibility for his own laundry. He’d quickly learned other positions that did not spatter his sheets.

He turned over and lazily stroked himself. Groaning, he rose and trudged to the loo and turned on the shower. While waiting for the water to run warm, he closed his eyes and tried to recapture the dream. John, kneeling behind his spread knees, making sounds like he was relishing the most delicate treat. John’s tongue on him, wet and hot, his fingers pressing in and down. 

Sherlock felt a hot dribble down the length of his nearly-vertical erection. He opened his eyes to watch a drop of transparent preseminal fluid roll slowly down its length. Steam billowed from behind the shower curtain so he stepped into the bathtub and drew the curtain tight. He turned the tap as hot as he could stand.

The water streamed over his scalp, neck, back and chest - scorching trails setting his skin tingling. Sherlock ran his palms over his chest, down his sides, stroked his thighs. With his eyes shut tight, he could imagine John was behind him, reaching around to stroke and fondle every inch of his skin. Sherlock groped on the edge of the tub to find his conditioner and squeezed out a generous handful. He smeared the sandalwood scented emulsion over his rigid cock and began to stroke quickly. 

Once again he lost himself in fantasy, imagining John’s hand stroking just the way he liked. He swiped the first two fingers of his left hand through the creamy substance and reached behind, stroking his anus the way John would. John, opening him up, first one finger then two, working in time with his hand stroking Sherlock’s cock. A long-held breath gusted out as Sherlock added a third finger, imagining it was John’s cock pushing in, stretching him open as John buried himself to the hilt. The image pushed Sherlock over the edge and he turned toward the spray as he came, the water immediately washing the evidence of his orgasm down the drain. 

He grabbed the soap washed his hands roughly, then braced a hand against the tiled wall and hung his head in the shower spray, breathing hard. The hot water cascaded down his forehead and temples, stinging his eyes.

At least that’s what he tried to convince himself the stinging was from.


End file.
